


The Bones of You

by incandescent (lmeden)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/incandescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is someone in Arthur's bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bones of You

**Author's Note:**

> Here on livejournal: http://leavesogold.livejournal.com/16515.html

The door sticks, as always; Arthur sometimes thinks of it as a metaphor for his life, but mostly tries not to think about it at all. 

He leans hard against the wood, kicks the frame, and sighs as the door swings open, hinges screaming. He steps inside and lets his satchel fall to the floor with a thud, careless of the laptop within. He’s done worse to his electronics in the past, and they’ve survived. Or, at least, he’s sent them to the very best technicians afterward. 

Arthur flicks the switch on the wall and the incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling burns to slow life. The stained walls brighten like light through the spotted film of an old filmstrip, and Arthur blinks for a moment to let his eyes adjust. 

There’s someone on the bed. 

He should go for his gun, but doesn’t; he knows that figure better than he knows his own for he’s spent many hours watching it shift, leaning over desks papered with his diagrams and plans, shifting and moving beneath the skin of another silhouette. 

He narrows his eyes and settles for a glare. “What are you doing, Eames? I could’ve shot you.”

Eames’ head falls back, and Arthur can tell instantly that he’s drunk. He licks his lips, then, “You’d never,” he growls, voice a burred creature from the north. “Not me.”

“No,” Arthur sighs. “Don’t suppose I would.” He shifts his shoulder blades, flexing and stretching, and strides across the small room. 

“Too well,” Eames mutters. 

“Oh, you _are_ pissed, aren’t you?” Arthur asks, amused. He stops by Eames’ knees.

Eames blinks to clear his glassy gaze, and there’s something about the rawness beneath the colors of his eyes that forces Arthur to remember all that Eames has been through. Arthur may deplore his methods, but his sheer grit and determination have outdone many a competitor, dropped them to their knees while Eames walked away, whistling. If Arthur were to pick associates, and he’s not been afforded that luxury often in dreamshare, he’d choose Eames at least two times out of five. That’s twice more than he’d choose anyone else. 

Eames’ hand scrabbles at the cuff of Arthur’s shirt, and Arthur leans down to press his lips to Eames’ ear. 

“Go to sleep,” he whispers, and tries to push Eames down. 

The damned man resists, muscles flexing. He turns his head and catches Arthur, kissing him lightly with his thick, soft lips. Arthur is all surprise, undone by the suddenness of the move and the fact that he hasn’t guessed this, when he’s always able to predict what’s coming next, _always_ , his heart frozen in the center of this road by Eames’ kiss. 

Eames pulls him closer, fingers fumbling but strong, and kisses him more intently. He licks Arthur’s lips with his supple tongue, and Arthur moves, twining his arm around Eames’ neck and opening his mouth. 

He lets Eames in and kisses back deeply. He licks into Eames, tasting the burn of alcohol that lingers on his breath and the coppery tang of blood that hides beneath his tongue. He kisses Eames till he’s running low on breath and Eames’ kiss is softening, turning to sleep, and he moves back. 

Arthur feels the flush that clings to the back of his neck, and Eames smiles sloppily at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the most damned appealing way. He blinks once, then twice, each movement slower than the last. Arthur pushes and is finally allowed to lower his sometimes-partner to the mattress. 

Eames’s lashes flutter against his cheeks as he lies there, turned into himself but for the one arm that reaches out, palm up, towards Arthur. Arthur settles on the edge of the mattress and thinks, for a second, about sliding his hand into Eames’ grasp. 

He doesn’t. He’s too exhausted for hand-holding, so he lies down instead, letting his head fall to the pillow and allowing Eames to curl around him. 

_I’ll throw him out in the morning_ , Arthur thinks with Eames’ heat settling into his bones.


End file.
